


Seismic

by winterstale24



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, Jaime Lannister Needs a Hug, Professor Jaime and Professor Brienne, The Smut Swap That Was Promised 2021
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-16 03:20:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29446941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterstale24/pseuds/winterstale24
Summary: Something had shifted in him, shifted the ground underneath him. Brienne was the one true thing, the one and only constant in his life. The day of the ball approached. And his thoughts had turned to something not-at-all friendly.For wordtheef and The Smut Swap!!! I'm sorry there's no snark, but hopefully this hit the mark for your song!https://youtu.be/w8kzHIl0xgw
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 20
Kudos: 124
Collections: The Exchange that was Promised: Jaime x Brienne Smut Swap 2021





	Seismic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wordtheef](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordtheef/gifts).



Brienne Tarth did not especially enjoy occasions. A lifetime of withdrawing to the position of sane and stable did nothing to allow her to enjoy the flutter of preparing for a fancy-dress event. She told herself that it was unimportant, that she had no interest in engaging in the rituals Sansa and Margarey embraced with each invitation to a Sevenmas theme party. But that was a lie Brienne told herself. It was a lie she repeated when she came face-to-face with The Dress.

“C’mon, then. Let’s have a look at you in that dark blue one.”

“Oooh, yes! Try it on, Brie. The gunmetal beading is gorge.”

“I can wear my black dress, Marg.” Brienne shook her head with an indulgent smile. “Never mind me, we’re here to look for you two.”

Sansa’s head popped from behind the dressing room curtain, Marg’s following.

“That old sack is forbidden,” Marg said, scowling. “I’ve seen that thing at funerals and weddings for six years!”

Sansa swished open the curtain, stepping forward with a voluminous fuchsia skirt hitched up from her dainty ankles. “If you dare try to turn up in that thing, we’ll tear it stitch from seam, even if it’s on you at the time.”

Marg followed, gleaming in a bronze organza and sable velvet confection. “Didn’t you say Jaime is coming along with us?”

“Yes.” What did Jaime have to do with the sad state of Brienne’s wardrobe? “And?”

The two wouldn’t say another word. There were shoe purchases and shops selling lacy, silky, pretty underthings and the thrice-damned pair of them just… they just hmmed to themselves occasionally and continued on chatting about Maiden’s Day and the hired car Renly and Loras had arranged for their group and hoping that same chef Olenna had in every year would make those darling little Maiden’s Nipple cakes again.

So Brienne was sure she’d escaped, safe from another dress discussion.

~.~

“You don’t need me to pick out the reddest dress with gaudy golden embroidery, Aunt.”

Genna huffed in exasperation for the seventh or eighth time since their lunch in Visenya’s Hill and took a threatening step toward Jaime. He canted back in a reflex honed over thirty-seven years of protecting his ears from his Aunt’s well-practiced pinch.

“You can’t spend an afternoon with your favorite family member, you ungrateful boy? Sit down and look awestuck when I come from the dressing room.” She bustled off to a rack of crimson gowns. “Will you be bringing anyone to the Tyrell ball?”

Jaime slunk into an overstuffed chair by a wall of curtained dressing rooms. “I’m coming with friends.”

“Friends.”

“Yes, Genna. Friends.”

Exasperated huff nine. Ten, maybe. Jaime sunk deeper into the chair.

“All right. Friends. Which friends?”

“The Tyrell-Starks. The Tyrell-Baratheons. And—”

“And?” Genna crossed to Jaime, a shop associate in her wake, struggling under an armload of crimson and gold.

“Brienne,” Jaime muttered.

“The Tarth girl.”

“Yes,” he smirked, imagining Brienne’s bristling at being called a ‘girl’. “Brienne Tarth.”

Genna disappeared behind the curtain. “Nice girl, that one. Very dependable.”

“She’s a good friend, Genna.” The best of friends, he mused to himself, standing. Why did meeting up with his aunt always devolve into a conversation about Brienne?

Jaime wandered away from the dressing room where Genna prattled on about only the gods-knew.

And that was when he saw The Dress.

Before he could check his wayward thoughts, he knew Brienne would be stunning in it. The soft, flowing fabric was a deep blue, tinged with a hint of violet, edged in deep gray beads. Her eyes, Gods would her eyes be set alight with that color. Long layers of a filmy, gossamer silk parted the skirt, sure to reveal her league-long legs. And her shoulders, those moonlight-pale shoulders, how they would show their broad strength, revealed by the deep, beaded halter clasped around her long, thick neck.

Jaime stepped back and pulled at his collar. _Where the hells did that come from? Why was it so damned hot in this Gods-forsaken shop?_

She would be furious at being objectified, even in his unvoiced thoughts, even in something so perfect for her body, the absolute opposite of the black shift she was sure to be wearing. Her only dress, it made appearances at faculty cocktail hours, the Tyrell-Stark wedding, and, most recently, his father’s funeral.

She should have something as decadent as this. If only once. She’d never wear it.

_But, Gods if she did…_

Swallowing at the sudden thickness in this throat, he held The Dress away from him, comparing its length and cut against his own body.

A voice came from behind him. “May I assist, sir?

Before he could consider it, Jaime selected one of the two dresses hanging on the rack and thrust the garment into the waiting shop assistant’s hands. “I’ll take it.”

The Dress hung in Jaime’s front closet for weeks, reminding him of his wayward thoughts every time he reached in for his coat and scarf. Each time his fingers brushed the golden garment bag, there was a rush of the same vision he’d had in the shop: Brienne, tall and strong, fording the crush of Maiden’s Day revelers in the Tyrell ballroom, glimmering in The Dress.

Something had shifted in him, shifted the ground underneath him. Brienne was the one true thing, the one and only constant in his life. The day of the ball approached. And his thoughts had turned to something not-at-all friendly.

That afternoon Jaime had become as skittish as a newly-wed maiden from the Age of Kings, awaiting her bedding. Brienne – Brienne in The Dress – wouldn’t leave his thoughts. Considering asking her to wear it, asking her to consider him, made him feel as though he had no stable ground to stand on.

His second glass of Arbor Red did nothing to quell the thoughts. Her shoulders, her legs, her sapphire-blue eyes. Her mouth, descending…

Jaime was a tenured historian, damn it to the Seven Hells, not a bloody popular fiction adjunct.

Huffing in a most-Lannister way, he and his over-full glass of wine stalked to his bedroom. His head was swimming. His body quaked with nervous expectation in a most un-Lannister way.

He shuffled the cat from his comforter, discarded his glasses, and sunk in to the warmth of his bed.

_Warm, like Brienne’s hands in his_.

Jaime groaned and pitched himself over, tugging a pillow over his head.

_She was waiting for him._

_He was right, she was stunning, a fucking vision of legs and arms and shoulders, all her pale, pale skin, the scattered freckles pinpoint tattoos of gold against moon-glow. Every step she took toward him hinted at the long power of her stride, her leg peeking from the folds of fabric with each movement._

_Gods, she did turn him into a romantic._

_Her plush lips hinted at a smile. Her long fingers twisted around each other, betraying her own emotion. Her mouth moved and none of her words made sense but “Thank you.”_

_Jaime stood on his toes, his heart dipping deep, and brushed his lips against hers. Again. And once more._

_In the way of dreams, they were alone and suddenly her hands were everywhere. In his hair, drawing him up to her, skating over his chest and fumbling with the buttons of his white shirt. The electricity of her touch was finally real and he sighed against her mouth._

_The heated innocence of her gaze as the blue silk fell from her broad shoulders and shy, pink nipples brought him to his knees before her. Maiden. Warrior. Goddess._

_What had taken him so long to know?_

_They ground against each other, a tangle of limbs and mouths and tongues, breath hot and quick against now-bare skin. And then he was in her, her legs tight and winding along his hips as she sat astride his thighs and moved against him. She felt slick and tight and so gods-damed molten around his throbbing cock. He found the shallow curve of her neck meeting her shoulder and latched on, sucking in time with their bodies, his teeth grazing the little flush he’d made in her skin. His hands found the taut globes of her ass and grasped, drawing her deep and holding her where he needed her. Nudging his mouth toward the pebbled peaks of her nipples, he drew one between his teeth, against his tongue. They rocked and strained together, pitching their hips in time, drawing him deeper and deeper inside her clenching cunt. So close. Both of them, he knew it in his bones, she was as close as he was to coming apart…_

Jaime sat up, breath caught in his chest. He looked down at his boxer-briefs, tented under his straining, weeping cock. Before he could consider it, he thrust his hand down and caught himself against his palm. Fuck what it might mean and fuck the consequences, both of chasing the denied orgasm from his sleeping mind and what it might just mean to let himself see Brienne as he really saw her. He grasped his balls, pulling hard as he slid his hand along his shaft, twisting his wrist and thumbing at the glistening tip.

_Not long… Gods, Brienne…Harder, my sweetling, make me come for you…_

He did. Thick jets that landed on his stomach and chest. Jaime groaned and twisted again, rutting into his fist as he stretched his balls and jerked from deep in his thighs. His orgasm curled from his guts, drawing another long rope of come bursting from his cock.

Before he could think, Jaime stood and marched to the bathroom. Gods be damned, he was doing this.

~.~

Maiden’s Day was, in Brienne’s disciplined mind, another day, though lacking the order of classes and office hours and her frequent lunches with her best friend, Jaime. She and her Newfoundland, Pod, ran along Blackwater Bay and through Baelor’s Park. She attended to emails from students, still arriving even during the holidays, and spoke with her former advisor, Dr. Stark at WU, regarding their latest papers.

All of the activities were perfectly normal. The hours ticked by as expected. She even found the time to pull her black dress from its usual space in the back of her closet and give it a quick ironing.

She showered, shaved her legs, deep-conditioned her hair and blew it dry, and still had plenty of time for a small glass of wine before she dressed. Everything was in order.

Except it wasn’t. She had a decision to reckon with, hanging in her spare-room’s closet.

After that afternoon with Sansa and Margery, Brienne hadn’t been able to stop thinking about The Dress. For days, she barely skimmed the surface of her everyday life, hardly registering every interaction she had because her mind was occupied elsewhere.

Where it was, in fact, was the dress shop in Visenya’s Hill.

She altered her running route one Saturday morning when Pod refused to budge the place he’d claimed in the center of her still-warm bed. One of the two the shop had was still there. And she found herself looking at The Dress and a reflection of herself in the shop window. A fleeting image of herself, swaying in Jaime’s arms, flitted through her mind. And then something deep inside her demanded an answer.

“Fuck it to Seven Hells,” Brienne grumbled and marched through the door.

In the weeks since, Brienne had toed at bringing The Dress into her orbit. First, she allowed herself a look, once a day, inside the garment bag. It took her nearly two weeks to take The Dress from the garment bag, another three days to the moment of reckoning when she slipped the layers of blue-violet silk over her head.

It fit. It wasn’t… well, it wasn’t bad, really. It was just fine, Brienne mused as she did up the tiny silk-covered buttons at the back of her neck. Even that scrap of cloth fit fine around a part of her that bordered on thick and too-long. She liked the color against her skin and eyes, even didn’t mind the bodice that curved away from her shoulders, revealing them and all the freckles covering them.

It was fun to have this secret hidden in her spare closet, sandwiched between her winter ski-coat and the pea coat and scarf Jaime left behind one warm day last spring. Nothing would come of it, Brienne told herself. She certainly wouldn’t wear a backless, sleeveless, slit-to-thigh beaded and silken dress. Even if she couldn’t get the image of Jaime and her out of her mind, every time she looked at The Dress.

Brienne tightened her robe’s belt and padded off to her spare room. One more time, just before she had to get ready.

As she was sliding The Dress over her head, her doorbell rang. Brienne’s eyebrow furrowed. Jaime wasn’t to be here to meet up before the Tyrell’s party for hours. She paused, considering how she would get The Dress off and her robe back on.

The doorbell rang twice again.

“Just a moment!” she called out and pulled up the hem as she strode across her apartment. The bell rang again as she opened the door. “One moment, pl—”

It was Jaime. Dressed for the evening already and looking breathless and flushed and eyes so soft behind his horn-rimmed glasses. He gazed – really, honestly gazed – up at her.

“Jaime,” she said, surprised at how breathless she suddenly was, too. “Are you all right?”

He stepped forward, holding a gold garment bag before him. “I dreamt of you.”


End file.
